


Te Dejo Madrid

by couldvelovedyou



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 08:43:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/couldvelovedyou/pseuds/couldvelovedyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mou stays, Iker transfers to Barcelona, everyone is really upset and Cristiano more than all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Te Dejo Madrid

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Shakira song (madridista forever. [Listen here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jgCh19FJ1hg)). Iker/Cris=love.

They're all sitting in the dressing room in Valdebebas. The room is dead quiet, and nobody dares to even look up.

It's been that way ever since Marcelo and Pepe came running in, out of breath, to tell everyone what they heard listening in on their president's conversation with their captain. Apparently it wasn't so hard because the conversation wasn't quiet at all. All they had to do was stand outside the room. And what they heard was a transfer.

The dressing room is so tense it feels like a war is coming.

Cristiano's seething silently, attempting to breathe in and out, biting his lower lip so hard he might be tasting blood. His eyes are squeezed shut until the door opens with a screech. Then everyone looks up at once at Iker as he walks into the room, and stops, looking between them all as they stare back at him.

Sergio is the one to ask. "Is it true?" 

"What is?" Iker gapes at him.

Cristiano stands up at that and waves an angry finger at him. "Don't lie to us. Is it true?"

Iker looks around the room, scanning the faces of his teammates. He meets Marcelo's raised eyebrows and understands, takes a deep breath as his shoulders drop. Then he looks right at Cristiano. "Yes."

Cristiano feels the weight of the world on his shoulders, squeezing down onto his heart and crumpling it up. His stomach tightens and he actually feels like he might be sick- sick with anger, with confusion, with sadness, with _loss_. This is what this is after all- Iker leaving Real Madrid is a loss.

He opens his mouth to speak, and realizes he doesn't know how to say all that is rushing through his mind. Instead, he turns around and walks towards Iker's locker, jerks it open and starts tossing its contents over his shoulder.

First go Iker's street clothes that he came in wearing that morning- jeans and a white t-shirt. Second, his shoes. They hit a wall behind Cristiano but he doesn't look back. Then, a jumble of the rest of his things: keys, a wallet, an iPod, a magazine and pictures that Cristiano rips from the door that Kaká picks and stacks up (days later, after the storm is over, Kaká will give him the pictures and Cristiano will stare at them through his nights)- a formal picture of the squad from the beginning of the season, a picture of them all celebrating the Supercopa that they won back in August, a picture of Iker and Sergio, wearing their national team colors, hugging, a picture of Iker, Ángel and Cristiano, on the bench against Levante, smiling wide at each other. 

Cristiano picks up the last remaining object and turns around. It's a football, and he throws it at Iker's head.

-

The room is quiet after the sound from the slammed door stops. Cristiano has left; his shoes and car keys are still there, so they know he's wandering around the facilities instead of going straight home.

Sergio makes a 'tsk' sound with his tongue and looks up at Iker. "Bet you didn't expect that."

"No, I-" Iker runs a hand through his hair. "I actually expected exactly that."

"What did you expect from me?"

Iker gives a small hopeful smile. "Understanding and maturity from the new captain?"

Pain shines in Sergio's eyes and Iker's smiles dies down. With a deep sigh, Sergio stands up. "No," he says and leaves, leaving the door open for the rest of the team to follow through. They all do- some more slowly, some without looking back, some with a pat to Iker's arm or shoulder.

When he's all alone, Iker looks around for one last time at the room he spent so much time in. He's sure in his decision to leave, but that doesn't mean he can't be sorry it came down to that.

-

He finds Cristiano sitting on the grass of their training pitch, legs straight ahead, leaning back on his elbows, eyes closed against the sun. He sits down next to him. 

"Cris," he starts.

"Don't."

"I don't want to end like this," his voice is close to begging.

Cristiano turns to him, opens his eyes to look at him. "This was your choice."

"You know why I'm doing this. You know I won't get to play here again. I'm out. It's the only choice I have left."

"No," Cristiano shakes his head. "Barcelona wasn't your only choice. Any club would have taken you."

Iker knows he's right.

"I thought we were doing fine. I thought we were great."

"We were," Iker assures. "As a team, we were, but for me…" he trails off.

But Cristiano is talking about something else entirely. "I thought we," and he gestures between the two of them, "really found something-"

Iker puts his hand on top of Cristiano's, and Cristiano stops talking and looks down at them. Iker sees him blinking hard. "I'll miss you," Iker says, and it's the most honest thing he remembers speaking to him.

Cristiano opens his mouth to speak, but closes it, the _I love you_ remaining on the tip of his tongue and he swallows it down. It doesn't matter now, he thinks, because this is the last conversation they'll have.

Iker nods to himself and rises to his feet. He bends down to kiss the top of Cristiano's head and walks away, leaving him behind. Cristiano sits there, looking at the horizon, wondering about what might have been, for a long time after.

-

The first Clásico of the season gets there quicker than any of them realized. Cristiano is shaking from the moment he puts on his kit and walks to the tunnel and until the referee whistles to start the match. When they shake hands, Iker sandwiches Cristiano's hand between his own two, but Cristiano doesn't look up. He's relieved when the ball is at his feet.

He scores on his former captain twice; doesn't celebrate, just bears his eyes deep into Iker's and tries to convey everything that he's feeling that way.

Iker understands. He knows too that they had found something between them, back in Madrid, back in Valdebebas and the Bernabéu and La Finca. He left before they had the chance to explore it further and define it, and now they had nothing.


End file.
